Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 100545 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100545 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Tank scowled. “We’re in the middle of nowhere. Let’s get the photos and leave.”
Pyro produced a tiny plastic camera with a picture of a red fish at the front. Digital photography would have been faster, but not leaving traces anywhere was priority.
“Get the other guy too. Someone might be willing to pay up for him as well,” Tank said, taking in the damaged interior. It was all broken furniture and moldy walls, so the elegant music played by the radio must have been a way to calm the woman. The poor thing likely had no idea she’d just been saved from mortal danger. If Riggs had an accomplice with him, then this couldn’t have been a date.
“Search the house,” Tank said. It was routine at this point, but he doubted they’d find anything other than roaches. His time in the army, however, had taught him there were never enough safety measures, and routines served a purpose. He walked into the corridor and headed for the stairs, hesitating over the broken bannister. For a brief moment, Tank considered ignoring the upstairs, but then noticed footprints in the thick layer of dust covering the old wood, so with a silent sigh, he made his way up.
Breaking his neck in a fall would be a stupid way to go after years as a bounty hunter-slash-mercenary-slash-occasional handy man, but the stairs were structurally sound, and he switched on his flashlight, showcasing vulgar graffiti covering a large portion of the wall. He was about to start on the other end of the corridor when something creaked behind the door nearest to him.
A drop of sweat rolled down his back when he noticed a shiny new padlock holding it shut. “Anyone in there?” he asked, focused on sound.
A whimper from inside made him frown. The fuck?
“I’m coming in. If you’re holding a gun, drop it, or I’ll shoot you on the spot.” A fair warning, after which he assessed the door.
The padlock was new, but the door as old as the stairs, so Tank backed away and used force. He didn’t get his nickname for no reason. His shoulder smashed into the plywood, and when the slab cracked, he kicked it in for good measure.
The broken door swung inside, revealing a single shape in the corner. Tank directed the ray of his flashlight straight at the person, who flinched, blinded by the bright glow, the cuffs attaching his ankle to bared pipes glinting sharply.
Thick tape gagged the person. Another look made Tank realize that despite the slight frame, the captive was male. All he had on was a pair of jeans, even his feet had been left bare.
With a pleading whimper, the young man extended his bound wrists toward Tank. Everything about the boy was so white that for half a second, Tank had the strangest feeling that the boy wasn’t human, but a ghost, or an angel even, radiating his own light.
The cascade of pale blond waves seemed translucent in the unnatural illumination, but as the stranger straightened and looked at Tank with pink eyes framed by white eyelashes, it became clear it wasn’t just the light that made his appearance so pale.
He was an albino.
And oh so beautiful.
Chapter 2 – Clover
Clover moaned when Riggs dropped him to the floor after a pathetically short struggle. He’d have yelled at the fucker if his mouth hadn’t been taped shut. He whined when his glasses dropped off his nose, turning everything into a watery blur. His wrists ached from being bound for hours now, but his legs were free to kick.
He jerked on the floor, aiming for Riggs’s knees, but the bastard dodged the attack, smirking when he got out of Clover’s range.
His worst nightmares were coming true. People like him, with no family—blips in the system—could disappear without a trace, since there was no one to search for them or even notice their absence. And it had been Jerry, the closest Clover had to a friend, who’d sold him off in the first place. The only thing he could count on was his wits.
Riggs’s thick brows lowered over his eyes, at least this much Clover could see even without his glasses, and his towering presence moved above, until Clover was hauled back to his feet and pulled to the corner, where pieces of the wall had been ripped away, revealing piping. Riggs wasn’t the type of guy one might typically fear. His size—average. His face—average. His outfit and hair—beyond average.
After years on his own, Clover knew that such exterior signals of innocence meant nothing. It was often the most normal-looking guys who posed the biggest threat.
His brain screamed that there was still a chance to run, but it was obvious he stood no chance against Rigg’s strength. He stiffened and wheezed, sinking to his haunches as he made himself struggle for breath. Whatever type of cargo he was for Riggs, the man didn’t want him dead. Yet.